Alvi
by jojofet
Summary: Nord Dragonborn. Main plot and Civil War questlines. Estranged from her country for the past ten years, Alvi must grapple with what it means to fight for her country.


15th of Last Seed, 4E 201

"Hey, you. You're finally awake."

Alvi snapped to attention at the sudden sound of a man's voice across from her.

"You were trying to cross the border, right? Walked right into that Imperial ambush, same as us, and that thief over there."

The blond Stormcloak spoke with a remarkable amount of gusto for someone who was now a full-fledged POW. His crystal blue eyes were fully alert and he was clearly unfazed by the cold.

"Damn you Stormcloaks," spat the ruddy-faced man next to him. "Skyrim was fine until you came along. Empire was nice and lazy. If they hadn't been looking for you, I could've stolen that horse and been halfway to Hammerfell."

"You there," he continued, his eyes setting upon her for support, "you and me, we shouldn't be here. It's these Stormcloaks the Empire wants."

She gave the man a once-over, and was unimpressed. The man clearly didn't put a high price on his own dignity. Saying nothing, she snorted and spit off the side of the cart.

Seeming unsure of what to make of her, the blond cleared his throat.

"We're all brothers and sisters in binds now, thief."

"Shut up back there!" barked the coachman, sounding more tired than anything else.

"Yes, sir," Alvi droned mockingly, more to herself than anyone else.

A sudden, loud growl by her right ear made her practically leap out of her seat. The regally dressed man sitting next to her had been so silent, she'd almost forgotten he was there.

"What's wrong with him, huh?" snorted the thief.

The blond man's expression was one of shock, maybe even offense.

"Watch your tongue!" he admonished him without missing a beat. "You're speaking to Ulfric Stormcloak, the true High King!"

Her mouth went dry. First came a brief, childlike flutter in her stomach at the thought of being shoulder to shoulder with her childhood hero, a living legend. Then came the cold sweat realization of what that meant.

"Ulfric? The Jarl of Windhelm? You're the leader of the rebellion," proclaimed the thief, giving voice to her thoughts. "But if they've captured you… oh Gods… where are they taking us?"

The blond turned to look out into the countryside, and the woman could see a grim sort of acceptance take hold of his rugged features.

"I don't know where we're going," he muttered, "but Sovngarde awaits."

She recognized the strange tranquility that often came over her in desperate times like this. She had always thought the numbness to be one part defense mechanism, one part problem solver, and one part biological hiccup. Now, she wrapped herself in it as though it were a security blanket. After all, it had helped to delay much pain and many imminent dooms before. If she was going to be executed, she wanted to be something close to happy.

"No, this can't be happening, this isn't happening," the thief sputtered, his eyes filled with tears and locked onto his feet.

After a small pause, the blond wearily looked back at the panicked man.

"Hey, what village are you from, horse thief?" he asked gently.

"Why do you care?"

"A Nord's last thoughts," the blond urged, "should be of home."

His lip quivered for a moment.

"Rorikstead. I… I'm from Rorikstead," he responded, seeming to have finally calmed down.

It suddenly occurred to her that that blond's face was strangely familiar. Alvi wanted to ask him where he was from, but the conversation was again sharply cut off by the coachman's voice.

"General Tullius, sir! The headsman is waiting!" His voice bordered on gleeful.

"Good," spoke a rather unassuming man on horseback near the gate, "let's get this over with."

This, of course, got the horse thief riled up all over again.

"Shor, Mara, Dibella, Kynareth, Akatosh- Divines, please help me!" His pleas seemed to fall on deaf ears, which only served to heighten the man's panic.

The blond man turned in his seat to get a better view of the small gathering of officers.

"Look at him- General Tullius, the Military Governor," he spat. It took her a moment to register that he was speaking to her. "And it looks like the Thalmor are with him," he continued. "Damn elves. I bet they had something to do with this."

He looked to her with expectance in his eyes, but was met with only a slight squint and the raise of an eyebrow. After years of travel, a return to the casual xenophobia of her countrymen gave her an uneasy feeling in her stomach.

He changed the subject, and his voice took on a softer, more nostalgic tone. "This is Helgen," he informed her. "I used to be sweet on a girl from here. I wonder if Vilod is still making that mead with juniper berries mixed in." She could see the mistiness forming in his eyes, and she couldn't help but feel for the man as he went on sullenly. "Funny… when I was a boy, Imperial walls and towers made me feel so _safe_."

There was a heaviness in the pit of her stomach as her eyes drifted from the stone barriers to the collection of gawkers eyeing them from their porches. One man, at least, had the decency to send his son inside rather than let him watch the ensuing carnage.

Her aching wistfulness quickly turned to exasperation when the horse thief spoke up again.

"Why are we stopping?" he cried, looking desperately from one face to the other.

The blond scoffed before answering. "What do you think? End of the line."

The thief sat rigid, his breathing becoming arrhythmic.

"Let's go," the blond insisted, nudging the other man for emphasis, "shouldn't keep the Gods waiting for us."

Everyone in the cart stood up, the thief wobbling as he did so. Alvi tried her best to focus on her breathing, though she could feel the man's fear rubbing off on her.

"No, wait, we're not rebels!" beseeched the thief as he jumped clumsily off the wagon.

"Face your death with some courage, thief," the blond grumbled through his teeth. The thief ignored him and continued to babble.

"You've got to tell them! We weren't with you! This is a mistake!"

At that point, she was infuriated almost to the point of tears by how utterly pathetic the man was. All she wanted was to die with some dignity or peace or _something_. She had been rushing and evading and toiling for so long… maybe, she thought, it was time for her to stop moving… and simply take what comes. Unfortunately, the thief's weak attempts at persuasion were making her remember fear. She couldn't afford that.

"They don't give a shit, sweetheart, so save your breath. You don't have much left, after all." She sneered on these last words, really wanting them to bite.

She refused to look at him, opting to stare out at the countryside, the surrounding mountains in soft focus. The man gulped down a whimper as the Imperial captain, a stern Redguard woman, barked at them. A young Nord soldier stood at her side, holding a slate and quill.

"Step towards the block when we call your name. One at a time."

"Empire loves their damned lists," the blond growled. As she made a small grunt in agreement, she couldn't help but notice a more directed fury in his eyes.

"Ulfric Stormcloak. Jarl of Windhelm."

Following his gaze, she noticed the soldier was locked in a stare with him.

"It has been an honor, Jarl Ulfric!" The blond uttered the words with unbridled reverence. A part of her felt compelled to pay her respects as well, but once again Alvi's words failed her.

"Ralof of Riverwood." Though the soldier's face had remained completely neutral up to that point, a furrow developed in his brow that resembled… apology? The Stormcloak's march off was his only reply.

He had a name now. Ralof. Familiar still…

"Lokir of Rorikstead."

Alvi prayed the man would not be predictable. No such luck.

"No, I'm not a rebel. You can't do this!" The horse thief took off, feet skidding on the snow-slick stones.

The captain shouted for him to halt, sounding more inconvenienced than anything else.

"You're not going to kill me!" The man was ridiculous, screeching like a chicken about to be slaughtered.

"Archers!"

Sure enough. Within seconds, the horse thief called Lokir lay bleeding on the ground, practically rended by the swift volley of arrows. For the first time, Alvi took genuine pity on him. She hoped that death would come to him quickly.

With a smug smile, the captain proclaimed, "Anyone else feel like running?"

"Wait," the soldier interrupted, eyes darting from Alvi to the page and back again. "You there. Step forward."

The numbness came to her then, her old friend. She was as cold and unerring as the rock beneath her feet. Breath in, breath out.

"Who are you?"

One step forward, two steps forward.

"That's close enough, prisoner." The captain placed her hand on the hilt of her sword.

"You scared or somethin'? What d'you think I'm gonna do with my hands tied like this, huh?" A mocking smile crawled its way onto Alvi's face. It was strange. Now that she was back in her homeland, the Nordic accent that had faded with time came back with full force.

"I won't ask again," the soldier piped up, "give us your name and place of birth."

Her expression went dead once again as she slowly turned her head to face him.

"Whatsit to you?"

"I ask so that we know where to send your remains."

Just like that, the walls she had built threatened to crumble. She had come so close. Her family, the parents she hadn't seen in ten long years, were mere miles away, and she was going to die here, nothing but a common sellsword. Just another body to water the land with her blood.

"Al… Alvi Dawn-Strider. Of Falkreath Hold. Daughter of Siggi an' Angrovar Dawn-Strider."

"Dawn-Strider… I see." The soldier nodded slowly. "Captain, what should we do? She's not on the list."

A sneer, and not a moment of hesitation later:

"Forget the list. She goes to the block."

At those words, her vision went soft around the edges, and she felt as though she were walking in a dream. She could barely register queuing up for the headsman's block, or General Tullius' drawn out soliloquy, or even the first hacked off head. Her eyes stayed transfixed on the towering snowy peaks and the evergreens, her ears on the distant roaring winds. The tears warmed her cheeks. At least she was home.

She was jolted back to reality by a piercing cry.

"Next, the Nord in the rags!"

Another roaring wind. Closer. Stranger.

"There it is again. Did you hear that?" The soldier shifted his weight back and forth, looking anxiously to his superior.

"I said. Next. Prisoner," the captain snapped.

"To the block, prisoner," the soldier sighed, "nice and easy."

Alvi walked with purpose, ritual even, and didn't even pay any mind to the captain's boot pushing her to the ground. Her eyes closed.

That is when the shadow fell. Then the sky rained fire.


End file.
